Grant Park

"Why don't we play like that anymore, Harold?" she asked.

The two yellow puppies ran through the snow, jumping on one another, rolling down the hill and barking loudly. Their owner ran after them, leashes coiled in his pocket.

Harold kept walking, hands in his pockets.

"Because I'm not a fucking dog, Sheila."

Sheila tugged at the scarf wrapped around her neck and frowned at him. The wrinkles around her thin lips tightened.

They walked side by side. Harold's hands always in his pockets, Sheila's always grasping her scarf.

"I'm not a dog, either," she said sternly.

"Well, there you go," Harold sighed.

DON'T WALK

He came to a halt at the crosswalk. His head tipped back to look up at the city, his eyes squinting as snow fell gently onto his bifocals.

"What?" She looked up at him.

"What?" He tilted his head towards her.

She stood up on tippy toe. "What did you say?"

He looked down at her, bundled stiffly in one little scarf and her old red jacket. He smiled. The wrinkles at the corner of his mouth danced. "Nothing."